


Splash of Colour

by missinsertname



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Dorks in Love, F/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Star-crossed, but some on how can there not with these two, okay a teeny bit of angst along the way, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missinsertname/pseuds/missinsertname
Summary: In which a perfectly acceptable grey life in a small grey town is intercepted by a splash of colour. Rumbelle Non-Magic AU.E begins Chapter 4.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't been a writer of fanfic for a very very long time, spontaneously decided to give it another shot. Forgive me if this is rusty and cliched, hopefully just getting back into the swing of things. I posted this on my old account on FF a couple of weeks ago, but I personally only ever read on here so I am posting here for the first time.
> 
> Be prepared for some fluffy star crossed dorks, that's all I can say.

The clock above Storybrooke library struck five, a second which felt heavy with a kind of magic in the small town, releasing its grey inhabitants from their grey jobs to walk under the grey skies, free to add some colour to their day. The pawnbroker glanced up when the first signs of his neighbours shutting up for day sounded and checked his pocket watch. With a little flourish he clicked the lock on his shop door and flicked the sign, smirking with relief as he tugged the blinds closed. 

Mr Gold, of Gold and Son Pawnbrokers, was a thread of colour in this small town. Foreign, both in upbringing and country, and wealthy without compare for miles around, his tailored three pieces held him up as he endured mistrust, and as time went on and he invested in more and more properties, open hostility. His son Neal, a teenager when they had moved to Storybrooke, was fortunately well liked by most due to his implacably charming nature, but now he had moved for college there was no longer a buffer or saving grace to adjust public opinion. 

As time went on, he began to carry the grey suits he wore, and own the reputation he had been handed. He was unrelenting and precise in his execution of payments of rent, and repayment of loans. He was not friendly, only coldly polite, relying on careful silences and developing a glare that could occasionally even wither Mrs Hubbard of Granny’s Diner, whose biting remarks ordinarily rivalled a wolf’s. No one in this town liked him, but none truly knew him, and he had settled contentedly into a grey life where most day he would largely be free from frivolous begging or chattering, because everyone just left him alone. 

Then Isabelle Rose French had stumbled out of her green car on her blue heels, chestnut curls bouncing over the detail on her purple blouse, and promptly spoiled his neat grey life through her red lipped smile and eyes which shone with green and blue light as she caught his arm as he passed to steady herself.

It had been six months of colour since that day, when he had taken her Australian accented thanks and self-deprecating giggle of embarrassment at her clumsiness with a small smirk, given her a brief nod and a word of welcome while she said she had come to run the town’s old library, and continued along the street as if he not just met the most beautiful and engaging woman he had ever encountered. To his astonishment and pleasure, she had deigned to speak to him again a few days later as he collected rent at the ice cream shop, and for the first time since Neal lived with him he bought ice cream after business was done.

She was subject to some of the same mistrust he had been initially, but her looks and aptitude with children and her work soon dissuaded the more malignant comments. She was however considered an outsider, and like him did not tally well with what the townspeople expected from her – she declared herself uninterested in dating, despite what some of the mothers had to say about her being in her thirties and unattached, and while enjoying make up and clothes she did not follow fashions and looked very little like the other women in the town. Those first few weeks of her settling in had led him to come to the firm conclusion that he was not going to be capable of staying away from her, and she had thoroughly and effortlessly ruined his perfectly acceptable existence.

Since then they had maintained what the closest thing to a friendship, with him regularly stopping by the library under the pretence of buying a book on antiquities or a casual read, usually staying for upwards of an hour while they had debates and discussions on all manner of things, and she did the same, stopping by the pawn shop while out shopping on the weekends. He was surprised how much he had missed deep conversation and intellectual challenge, and was enthralled by her passion and quick wit. 

Recently though, their visits were dying down – the summer had come and Belle was an engaging and passionate librarian – her time at work was filled with activities and guidance and teaching of the local children. His business was picking up too, with tourism and returning families meaning rent was no longer a struggle to get and more of his time was taken by trips out of town to buy, sell and value antiquities. He had been trying to tell himself that this was good – he needed to maintain his image in order to be safe, and too many times he had been caught in a good mood and been generous with rent time or had library goers pause in confusion when they heard him happily chatting with Belle and think they can also speak to him like that. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a persistent whisper that he couldn’t care less what the town thought and wanted her all to himself. Obviously that part of his mind come into the light recently – everything about him, from his hair to his shoe tips, was grey. He and Isabelle Rose French were not even painted by the same hand, they could never share a canvas.

Not five minutes after he had locked the shop, there was a tentative knocking at the door. His eyes snapped up and dumbly stared towards it for too many seconds before he heard her soft and vibrant voice call his name questioningly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a minor note, I am English so use English spellings and I am woefully ignorant of American culture beyond what I see on the TV, so I hope that isn't too reaching - I am assuming small towns are much alike wherever you are.
> 
> Thank you for reading, constructive feedback would be much appreciated, I really want to get back into writing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a direction I am going in but I'm shifting styles a little from the first chapter just to get my eye into writing again - this one is much more dialogue heavy, still short but my motivation comes in waves. Hope you enjoy!

Mr Gold had been poring over some what he hoped were early edition Grimm's at the counter and he had not confirmed their authenticity as of yet – at least not the level of his particular satisfaction, and had briefly mentioned the possibility of her coming round at some point that week to discuss them, but at the time she had appeared so harried he had been unwilling to press the issue, allowing her to return to prising a little boy off her skirt and attempting to herd the younger group into a reading circle. He had certainly not expected a visit only a few hours later, so soon after closing, and swallowed and suppressed the urge to grin as he set down the book and straightened his tie.

"Just a second Miss French," he called as he reached for his cane and went to unlock the door.

"Hi, I know it's still early but I didn't want to risk missing you – that is, I really wanted to see these books and I know what sort of time pressures you are under when you find buyers so -"

"Come in before we talk about anything, the chill isn't good for my old bones," he quipped, guiding her through the door, closing it and reaching to take her coat as she shrugged it off.

"It's barely even cold, and you don't have old bones," Belle admonished affectionately, smiling gratefully. She wore a unseasonably short skirt and her hair was clipped back and ringlets framed her face in a distinctly distracting way.

"Well if not then I will soon if I have to sit through your chatter for the next hour," Gold said smoothly, throwing down the gauntlet and meeting her eyes as she smiled mischievously.

"Then buckle up Scottie cos you are in for an unpleasant afternoon – I fully intend to bore you silly with exactly why and how you are wrong about the dates of these books."

"You clearly have no reason to suspect that, you haven't even seen them."

"Yes, but some of us don't earn a living being a miser I feel it is my duty to be superior you in every matter involving books."

"I appear to recall you said the same about all global politics."

"Don't get me started with you again, a single payer healthcare system is so much more efficient! It's so obvious, not all of us can afford to have specialist orthopaedic surgeons flown in, we need a centralised and fair -"

"Okay now I confess myself lost."

"For your old bones…? Seriously maybe your memory is going too, you are lucky you can afford – "

"Alright, okay," conceded Gold with amusement, holding his hands up in supplication and gesturing for her to join him in the back room as he picked up the books, "I see you are not for turning."

Belle raised her eyebrow in victory and joined him as he placed one of the tomes on the table in front of them. Their banter delighted him, and she was so unafraid of him it was charming and alarming in equal measure, but he did in all honesty want to see what she thought of these books – he knew she loved fairy tales for their influence on modern storytelling and had impulsively selected these at an auction knowing they would excite her.

"So, Mr Gold, fearsome stranger from the highlands, when do you think these were published – I bet you a dinner that you are over 100 years out," she said quickly, leaned over the first page and facing away from him.

"Well you've just given me a hint there Miss French – "

"Belle," she said habitually.

"Apologies, you've just given me a hint Miss Belle French – "

He felt her eye roll through the back of her head.

"In that you have revealed that the publication date must be wrong – it would be a tough double bluff otherwise."

"We should play poker sometime then," she said quietly with amusement in her voice, still looking down at the book. Gold edged forward a little to better see the book and glanced toward her face, her eyes still transfixed on the page.

"So do we have a deal?"

"That's usually my line," he deflected, more than a little wrongfooted – was she serious about having dinner, with him? Or was he reading too much into one of their jokes, as he was prone to doing?

She released a short breathy laugh and shook her head a little, glancing towards him, only a small distance apart, with an expression that was something like resignation.

"Never mind, it'll be a waste of time anyway because you'd always have had to buy dinner for me, and we couldn't have that, now could we?" The slight edge to the last few words didn't escape him, and suddenly Gold felt something he had not felt from her before – a wave of genuine frustration.

"Is everything okay Miss French? I feel sure you have more competition than you think but if you really want to wave the bet well…" he trailed off, attempting to reclaim their easy humour, but she stilled, determination washing over her frame as she straightened and turned toward him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the Gold is utterly clueless trope, and I wanted to show a little Dark Castle style bantering in a friendlier context.  
> I have no fixed opinion on healthcare systems by the way, I just thought it was a fairly broad but intellectual conversation topic I could see the two of them getting into.
> 
> Reviews would be brilliant if you have a minute more, hope you enjoyed. Next chapter coming very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So grateful and heartened by the lovely comments and kudos left on the first couple of chapters, thank you so much to everyone! 
> 
> Heading back to the motif a little more, playing around with references to the show - let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

When the door bell sounded a few crucial minutes later to signal her departure, Gold locked it with a click. He then calmly and deliberately stepped back into the back room of his shop, located a scotch that was far too expensive for anyone to actually drink, poured a large measure into an antique china cup, threw it down his throat and childishly and ungracefully threw himself into his chair with a groan.

He looked down at the teacup, and promptly threw it at the floor in disgust, hoping for a satisfying smash so he could be properly and appropriately dramatic about his stupidity. All he got was a chink and clunk as it rebounded off the carpet, still intact. He stared at it from across the room, somewhere in him noting that at least something somewhere wanted him to still have wealth to console him. Reaching for it, he realised there was a large chip on the rim, unsalvageable even by working his antique magic. That’s it then, conclusions drawn – nothing and no one was on his side, least of all himself.

* * *

 

As Belle had stood and faced him, he had stepped back slightly, overwhelmed by her proximity.

“What is it going to take Gold?” she said determinedly, her eyes wide and her red lips shaped around his name like she owned it.

“Excuse me?” he said, reflexively taking another step back and putting both of his hands on his silver cane in front of him.

“When are you actually going to tell me where you stand?”

She was more earnest now, her startlingly green eyes round and searching.

His heart stopped for what felt like far too long at her words as he attempted to catch up to her meaning, eager to correct his wrongdoing and terrified and confused in equal measure at the potentiality of her question.

“I – I am standing right here, waiting for an answer about my book”, he found himself saying as he focused his gaze an iron chalice on the shelf behind her.

“Of course. So, all these visits, our conversations, the fact that you already know how old these books are, that is all coincidence?” she said indignantly, catching his eyes again and focusing them on hers.

Mr Gold swallowed, still unaccustomed to the sensation of being unable to respond effectually, and attempting to ignore the buds of hope that were beginning to find root in his mind.

“And the fact that it is obvious how I feel but you apparently feel differently – “

“I don’t”, he said quickly, stepping towards her.

“You don’t what?” Belle spoke softly, startled and uncertain.

Everything he wanted might be right there. Right here. With her. He gazed down at her, a hundred images of her lips touching his, of her in his home, in his arms, in his bed, bringing a red tinge to his skin -

But what if it wasn’t – didn’t she say they felt differently? Did she mean she didn’t feel like he did, she was trying to be open about their differing views of their relationship, trying to get an old man to stop letching over her shoulder, trying to goad him, to embarrass him - ?

“I don’t… know how old the books are.”

He turned away from her, running his hand through his silver streaked hair as he lifted one of them from the table. Still pretending to look over another of them, he proffered the one in his hand to her dismissively.

“I’ve got to close up, could you give them a look over and have an answer to me by Monday? I will pay you for your time of course.”

It was scarily easy to slide back into his smooth polite coldness, it felt stable and safe against the onslaught of heat and uncertainty radiating from inside of him.

“Of course. Good evening Mr Gold.”

Her voice was clear, still and colourless, betraying nothing, and her heels thudded dully on the wooden floor as he walked her to the front of the shop, the swish of her black coat going back over her shoulders the last he heard before a final polite “goodnight”.

* * *

 

After a frankly embarrassing amount of time, he dragged himself up, shrugging his suit jacket off and poured another scotch into the chipped cup. It was a shame really – the set was one of his favourites, white bone china with gold rims and a delicate, simple but bright blue design as the motif – and there were only two teacups. It wasn’t as if he would ever need another, chipped or otherwise, he pondered broodingly, watching the liquid climb the sides as his swilled it. On any other day he would have been a beast to encounter at it being damaged – but next to what had just happened, it’s just a cup.

Just as he was about to tip his head back, he heard someone try the front door handle, and cursed himself for not turning the sign and closing the blinds. Sighing, he reached for his cane, riled a little when they resorted to banging hard and repeatedly on the door.

“Alright, okay, for fuck’s sake!” he growled as he approached the window to check who got to sample his mood. The knocking stopped, and he peered out.

He saw her pastel blue gloves first, standing out against the fast darkening street around her, wrapped around her arms against the wind. Belle hadn’t seen him looking, she was fixed upon the door, her jaw set and her bottom lip slightly pouted.

On opening the door, she seemed ready to shout or sneer or admonish, but every one of those desires was extinguished by the sheer passion written across her rose-tinted cheeks as she looked at him.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the cold or the first pricks of rain around them. Maybe it was a drop of watercolour on the empty Storybrooke street.

Or maybe he just had to.

He kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really loving writing this, it's almost like the characters seem to decide where it's going, I didn't even want them to kiss yet!  
> We are by no means done however - I may make my first foray into smut, would that be something people would like?
> 
> As always comments are very welcome, thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second ever smut, still needs ironing out but I had fun with it, hope you will too. Thanks for reading.

_He kissed her._

It lasted a second until he drew back sharply but slightly, their noses almost touching.

She could feel her face burning against the cold and tasted rich scotch on her lips. They had stumbled into the street slightly and he had reflexively held her steady, both hands played across her waist, her hands instinctively brought to his chest. All she could feel on that dark and cold Storybrooke street was heat as the second that followed stretched out in her mind and through her body.

She kissed him.

He slid his long nimble fingers round her and brought one hand to hold the back of her head, pressing her to him like he was breathing her in. She responded in kind, angling her head and opening her mouth with a delicious sound.

They kissed like they were drowning, dancing as they sunk below the waves. For once in their lives, their minds were unencumbered by the racing of rationality, the chore of living a careful life. For once, they just…fell.

They found themselves in the back room of the shop, hands and lips and teeth and tongue learning too quickly how to dance a perfect dance together. Gold pressed her up against the wall, lining every inch of her exquisite form against his. She arched her back in kind, carding her nails through his soft hair. He groaned from deep within his throat and tore his lips from hers long enough to drag them along her jaw to explore the arch of her neck below her ear. He smirked, delirious with lust and joy, when she laid her head back against the wall with a moan and drew one of her heels slightly up his leg, inviting him yet closer.

His hand began to explore her curves as he found her pulse point with his tongue, pushing her coat open impatiently as he ran his fingertips along the underside of her breast, the other hand slowly sliding down her thigh as she rose her leg higher. Not to be outdone, she ran her hand to his waist, tugging his shirt free, and sent a trail of fire across his hip with the bite of her nails on his skin.

“Fuck, Belle,” he hissed involuntarily in her ear, his brogue low and his breath hot. Another wave crashed over them as he rose his head to look into her eyes, their foreheads desperately pressed together.

Any uncertainty left was drowned in the pools of black that her eyes had become, and he kissed her again, gentler than before, dragging her strawberry red bottom lip out from between her teeth. They were almost languid now as he removed her coat for the second time that night, letting it fall. It was joined by his waistcoat and tie, her deftness and desperation surprising and thrilling to him. He stayed her hands and their lips parted again with a delightful noise of frustration from Belle.

“We should…” he glanced around, attempting to bely his lust temporarily, “We should find somewhere more comfortable than this if we are to…” He trailed away again as he caught her eye. She wore an expression he had seen in certain forms before, it signalled an intensity, a tenacity in a debate that meant she was focused and decided on what she believed, what she wanted. It held an adjusted meaning when it was accompanied with a blush that spread down her partly exposed chest and a knee now entirely hooked round his narrow hip.

“I don’t see what comfort has to do with it,” she said with a slight tremble as she deliberately shifted to torture him. “I know we can’t do it right here, but I’m sure you’ll be – “she shifted again “-comfortable if you can lean against your table.” She inclined her head behind him toward the large hard-oak desk behind him.

He reluctantly released her and turned to move the Grimms to a nearby shelf, affording him a few seconds to catch some breaths and attempt to reign in his desire.

She took a shaky breath too, and removed her heels and tights, pausing to slow as she took them off as he turned and studied her efforts with dark eyes and a predator’s smirk. Her legs were quivering, and she felt her warmth between her legs as she held his gaze, confidence rising from nowhere as she drew herself slowly up again. She grinned wolfishly at him when he swallowed and leant back against the table, his knuckles whitening on its edge as she divested herself of her blouse and skirt.

He drank her in as she revealed herself to him and grinned back at her. He saw her vixen persona slip slightly as she stepped toward him, a slight shyness flitting over her face, and he reached for her waist to pull her in for another kiss. A moment of clarity pushed both above water for a second and they both laughed slightly into the kiss delirious with disbelief and coyness at where they found themselves. They looked at each other, unwilling to speak lest they break what magic had settled between them, and kissed again.

He had barely enough time to undo half his buttons on his shirt before she was impatiently pushing his hands away to do it herself, swinging them round so she could slide onto the table and settling him between her legs. Once he had shrugged it off she had drawn back to look into his eyes as she slid his belt free and rested her fingers delicately on the front of his waist band.

He growled as he pushed his hand behind her head to crash his lips on her again, and she swallowed his beautiful moan when she took him in her hand. She began to run her hand up and down his length, and his mind became entirely and completely hers. He reached for her underwear at her hip, glad to find it as flimsy as it looked as he tore it from her, causing her to cry out in unexpected arousal. No one else existed, nothing else, but ensuring they were joined together, to hear her cry out for him, oh god he had to hear her –

She threw her head back as he pushed into her, but he tugged her head back to him, determined to see her as he filled her. She had never seen him like this, so wild, so unrestrained, so beautiful, so beautiful –

Their sweat and breath mingled in the air around them as he dragged himself out of her and slowly pushed in again, never taking his eyes off hers.

Unable to restrain himself, he quickened his pace, drawing moan after moan from her as she laid herself down on the desk, debauched and glorious, desperately scratching at the wood to find anything, anything that would hold her onto reality and finding nothing but bliss. He felt himself drawing toward his end, and reached to roll her between his fingers, feeling with a savage glee the pulses he was sending down her legs.

“Yes, yes, YES, oh fu…” she uttered incoherently. Her legs were shaking and weak, every part of her was on fire and she could see stars as Gold filled her again and again, and it took no more than a few seconds of his touch before she succumbed to the white heat that had threatened her since he had first kissed her.

Her pleasure was too much, and as she fluttered around him and screamed in ecstasy he finally released himself into her, feeling his orgasm in every inch of his body.

Collapsing on top of her, waves of pleasure still rolling over them both, Gold became slowly aware of himself, noting the not insignificant complaining of his bad leg. With a heavy reluctance he pushed himself up, smiling down at her as she smiled back lazily.

“I really should…” he gestured to the chair.

“Yeah, of course,” she said with a slight giggle as he stood and she sat, the bashful way she ducked her head and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and odds with her nakedness.

He adjusted his pants and sat down, stretching out his leg. She hopped down from the table and bent down, fully aware of what she was doing and delighting in torturing him, and retrieved his shirt, sliding the expensive material over herself and smiling mischievously at him. She then leant over him to retrieve his teacup and the matching one, pouring them both a scotch.

“So…” Gold said slowly as he brought the teacup to his dry lips.

“So?” Belle replied with a mock innocent expression, bringing her teacup to her own.

“I suppose I should ask you to dinner.”

“Suppose you should. Only right to hold up your end of the bet.”

“You never gave me an estimate.”

“That is purely academic.”

“Is it indeed?”

“Yes!” she intoned, placing the cup down and leaning over him, bracing herself on the arms of the chair.

“Yes,” she said again.

He was prepared to concede, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought, all comments welcome as always. Not experienced with this type of fic. Do you think I should continue? Was considering polishing off with a conversation, but of fluffy clarification, but I could also just leave it on a *ahem* high note. Let me know your thoughts!


End file.
